Life's a Scream

by Ingrid Pitt

  I walked about fifty yards up the road, screwed up my courage and stalked back, swinging through the entrance before I had a chance to change my mind. A man stood in the lobby. I hadn’t counted on anyone being there and was immediately overwhelmed by fearful confusion. I made out I had just dropped in to pick up a pamphlet but when the man sniffed and turned to go into the theatre, I summoned all my courage and gave a cough that caught his attention. He smiled encouragingly.

  ‘I’m here to see Frau Weigel,’ I gasped. The man asked if I had an appointment and I gurgled something in reply, giving a sickly smile. He looked at me for a moment or two, told me to hang on while he found out if she was in and pushed through the door. He came back just as my nerve was failing me and I was about to leg it up the road.

  Frau Weigel would see me.

  She seemed incredibly small but came towards me with quick, large steps. She reminded me of my mother, except that Matka was twice as tall. Although she seemed hard as nails she was, in fact, soft and direct: no nonsense. It was her voice that captivated me: she sounded like Marlene Dietrich. And of course she was one of the best actresses on stage at the time. I tried desperately not to be intimidated but came as near to fainting without actually flopping out as it is possible to get. So far so good. She was wonderful and very gruff. She asked what I wanted. I had pulled myself together now and worked up a sort of hysteria. This was my big chance. If I muffed it my entire life would be 9 to 5 in a swivel chair. I said I wanted in.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You don’t lack chutzpah.’

  I took it as a compliment and asked if I could show her what I could do.

  She waved her cigarette around and stopped me. ‘You’re an actress?’ she asked. Again I was non-committal. ‘And I thought you were after the job making Muckefuck for the cast.’

  The small misunderstanding about making ersatz coffee was soon dealt with and I was asked to pop up on stage and do my bit. I did a piece which I pompously called ‘Home from the War’ by Witkiewicz.

  Of course, she realised I was having her on. She knew every tiny bit of Witkiewicz and ‘Home from the War’ was not one of his works. Why hadn’t I invented some name? I kicked myself.

  To my surprise and relief, Frau Weigel let me go on and even told Otto, the lighting man, to put me in a spotlight. I played a woman whose husband comes home from the war to find his wife taking part in the oldest profession to save the life of her child. She is sorry and he is sorry, and the whole thing was a travesty. But Helene didn’t roll in the aisle, laughing uncontrollably. Tickled by my brazen nerve, she asked me if I could do anything else. I told her I could do Chekhov but that I preferred not to as I didn’t like the German translations, which made his plays into high drama.

  ‘What do you think the plays are?’ she asked in an amused tone.

  ‘I think Chekhov is very funny, bringing out the funny side of the people he writes about,’ I parroted.

  She lit another fag and told me to get on and do ‘my’ Chekhov.

  ‘My’ Chekhov must have coincided with ‘her’ Chekhov because she let me stay. I was a member of the Ensemble.

  My first job was to brew Muckefuck. It wasn’t what I had in mind but eventually I would get some walk-ons and even the occasional line. What did I care? I had made it. Now I could listen and learn, and was at last in the setting where my amazing talent could blossom. I might be the tea-girl today but that would only make it so much more poignant when they hung the traditional gold star on the dressing-room door.

  I lived with my Auntie Fidi, my father’s sister-in-law, in her flat on Lenin Allee. Once a week I would borrow a bike from one of the carpenters and visit my mother. They were painful little interludes but I felt under an obligation. The pain was due not just to the continuous attempt to convince Mama that I wasn’t descending into a life of debauchery but to the checkpoint. Every time I went through it I was searched by the Volkspolizistinnen. They were much worse than the Vopos, their male counterparts. The women invariably made me strip naked. It was very frightening and reminded me of the degradations of Stutthof. There was no clear definition of what you could and couldn’t take through the checkpoint. One day coffee would be all right if you took only a small amount and promised, before Stalin, that you didn’t intend to sell it. Then the next day you might be stopped by a woman who had decided that coffee was an effete capitalist drink that should be confiscated. Clothes were another chancy item. Matka was always terribly aware of the favour my aunt was doing me and insisted I took her presents, very often clothes. Invariably, guards would snatch them away and throw them on to a heap in the corner. Sometimes they would even take those I was wearing if they thought I had too much on. At first I tried to protest but I soon learned that the more you did so, the more you got stopped and the longer the search took.

  The frustrations of the checkpoint, Mama’s constant harping about living away and the deteriorating quality of life in the East began to irritate me and I considered giving up my new job. I soon changed my mind, however, when one of the actresses decided that she had had enough and was going to escape to the West. With one female less I reckoned I might be called up for a proper part in the next production . . .

  Perhaps the actress had known something because, not long after she returned to the West, the borders were closed and the Berlin wall rose up. I could no longer go home to see my mother even once a week.

  My mother was frantic. I played it cool and assured her that, as a theatrical star, I was safe from any interference from the East German authorities. That didn’t exactly reassure her but I didn’t take a lot of notice. Whatever the consequences, I wasn’t going to give up my big chance in the world’s best theatre.

  Emboldened by my newly acquired status as an Ensemble player, however minor, I relaxed and was soon giving anyone who would listen the benefit of my experience. Otto, the lighting man, was a particular fan. He was old – at least forty – and though he would sometimes come on to me, I found him quite easy to control and felt safe with him. With his uncritical attention I soon worked up a spiel that included not only thoughts on acting, directing, scenery and publicity, but a more dangerous monologue about the powers that controlled the land. My theme ran along the lines that the East German government consisted of a load of morons who had no artistic appreciation. Political schooling did not moderate my views. Every week a commissar gave us a little lecture on how lucky we were to be looked after by our big brothers of the Volksrepublik. We were all supposed to sit and nod dutifully, and then wish the comrade farewell and get on with our work for another week. Everybody understood it was just a duty call. Except me. I began to rant on about the amount of time wasted on political schooling. The teachers were a bunch of cretins anyway. It would be much better if we were just left alone. No one argued with me. No one agreed with me. They were too smart. The nearest I ever got to encouragement was from Otto and he was really only interested in running his hands over my developing body.

  Inevitably, I went a criticism too far and the incumbent stool-pigeon told the Cultural Officer, who told the Volkspolizei and before I knew what was happening I was marched off to the local Vopo HQ. I wasn’t even thought worthy of a ride in the back of one of their big black limos. At the station I was put through the routine: first I was left sitting by myself for hours, then questioned by a bored woman about my family, friends, where I lived, what I thought about the Americans. By this time I was thoroughly worried and wished Matka were with me. She was good at fielding these sorts of questions. With each answer I felt I was digging a hole for myself. I was made to wait another eternity and then was interviewed by a man in uniform. He asked the same questions but with a lot more menace. There was more sitting in a little dark room and another interview, this time with a suit, who rapped out his questions without waiting to hear what I had to say. He seemed to be set on proving I was a pure anti-red, Soviet-hating capitalist. I was soon terrified, convinced that he had already armed a firing squad.

/>   I was again removed to a cell, where I huddled in fear until a civilian woman came in and to my utter surprise told me I could go. At the front desk I found the reason for my release: Helene Weigel had been in to bat. She had convinced the police that I was some sort of imbecile with a suicide fixation and they had agreed to release me into her custody. She left me in no doubt that if I didn’t shape up I would be out of the Ensemble. I grovelled and promised eternal fealty, and that my mouth would be as mute as marble. Helene showed she had a sense of humour by giving me the part of the mute Kattrin in Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage.

  Fourteen

  I stood in the wings feeling nervous. It’s not every day you’re called upon to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for a major theatrical company. Of course, the rest of the cast didn’t exactly see it that way but I was appropriately impressed with my belief. I knew the nervousness would pass. All the top actors admitted to nerves before a performance. It was expected and only proved what a magnificent job I was going to do playing the mute Kattrin.

  I could see Otto sitting in his little cradle in the flies. He had been a great support. The American magazines made a big thing about leading players not associating with the crew but, until that moment, I had been more crew than player and it was hard to play the grande dame with your fellow workers when you’re sweeping the stage or slopping out cups of Muckefuck to the cast. But, I reminded myself, that was yesterday. My time had come and Otto would have to face the sad fact of life that our cosy little relationship was over.

  I looked around the grim, jerry-built set and felt my destiny. It didn’t matter that the back of the theatre was almost wholly constructed from timber scavenged from the bombed-out buildings of East Berlin; nor that the Communist administration, in spite of their vaunted championing of the people’s theatre, refused to give assistance to the struggling company. All that mattered was that I had made it. Finally, I was going to stand in front of the footlights and show what I was made of.

  As I prepared to make my entrance I was aware that someone had come through from front of house and was talking to Otto. I knew it was about me. Otto was nodding and staring at me as if trying to make up his mind about something. I dismissed him from my thoughts and was attempting to focus on what was happening on stage when he touched my arm and drew me back a little. I was annoyed. It was this sort of thing which set me apart from the other, more seasoned, members of the cast. I would have to have words with him about over-familiarity. Before I could say anything he put his mouth close to my ear. ‘The Vopos are out front,’ he said hoarsely. ‘They want to speak to you.’

  Thoughts of resounding stage success were instantly replaced by alarm. My recent brush with authority had been enough to shut me up for a week or two but since my status had been enhanced I’d again found difficulty keeping my thoughts to myself.

  Overwhelmed by feelings of panic, and images of the Volkspolizei closing in on me, I gathered up the voluminous skirts that I wore for my part as Kattrin and bolted through the stage door. I had no clear plan. I just knew that another trip to the Volkspolizei HQ was not going to be as easily resolved as the last.

  Outside the theatre, the absence of street lighting and the terrible state of the roads and pavements were a mixed blessing. Though I didn’t fall immediately into the hands of the Vopos, I was soon lost. Tears formed in my eyes but I managed to choke back the self-pitying sobs which were trying to force their way through my chattering teeth. I began to run again but a broken paving stone soon sent me sprawling. I knew I should rest and take control of myself but there was so much adrenalin burning in my veins that I pushed myself to my feet and rushed on.

  From the darkness lights blazed out, completely blinding me. I didn’t have to be told that they came from a police car. Hiding in the dark and trapping individuals in their headlights was one of the Polizeis’ little party pieces. Depending on how frustrated they felt, they would then either search their victim and let him go, arrest him or beat him up. There was also a fourth alternative for solo girls but that was the least of my worries: I was a State criminal and would finish up in the Gulag archipelago if I were caught.

  As the car rolled forward my eye was drawn to a straggly hedge on my left. A voice barked out, ‘Stay where you are!’ and I heard the terrifying whine of a dog being temporarily restrained. The thought of those wicked canine teeth and great slavering tongue snapped my synapses into overload and my knee-jerk reaction was to dive out of the revealing light into the sheltering bushes.

  As I hit the undergrowth I knew I had made an ill-informed decision, for beneath the branches there didn’t appear to be any ground. Rolling downhill at an increasing velocity I began to wonder if I wouldn’t have been better off in a nice warm cell. But I didn’t have the luxury of choice. My hurtling body burst from the shrubs, slid painfully down a rocky incline and splashed into the icy waters of the River Spree.

  For a moment the huge Kattrin skirts acted like a life-jacket and kept me afloat, as I found my voice and screamed, but then the saturated clothes began to drag me down. My boots, full of water, felt like anchors. The thought crossed my mind that I should get rid of the sodden gear but the idiotic concern that I would have to explain to Helene how I had ditched some of her precious costumes just to save my paltry life crossed my mind and I hesitated.

  By this time the police were hanging over the bank, shining their torches and shouting stupid instructions, as if I didn’t know I was in the water and in trouble. Every time I managed to struggle to the surface it became clear that the torchlight was falling further away. I was in the grip of the notorious River Spree current and being swept to my death.

  I managed to relieve myself of Kattrin’s skirts. The boots were not so easy, however. In the dark, swirling water, submerged most of the time, I could only manage to free one foot.

  It was at about this time that I decided I was going to die. I wish I could say that I faced the possibility with dignity and calm acceptance. Unfortunately I can’t. All I could do was scream, cry and splash frantically around.

  The policemen’s torches were soon nothing more than pinpricks in the black night. Other dots of light on both sides of me confirmed that I had drifted out into the middle of the river. I was freezing, and panic and fear had exhausted me to a point where I could hardly be bothered to kick my legs in an effort to keep my head above water. I thought about my mother. Would she be devastated and blame herself for letting me leave the security of home? The cold water made my head feel as if a steel band were being viciously tightened around it and my temples were about to cave in. I was vaguely surprised that my legs and arms were still feebly functioning – they seemed to have no connection with my brain.

  The panic had gone now. I just felt terribly sad, although I don’t think I actually considered the premise that I was about to die. That didn’t seem to come into it. My brain just seemed to be divorced from my body and accepted the fact that one was going to be separated from the other. I can’t say that my life rushed before my eyes but it was as if I had a grand overview. It was all there but I was no longer a part of it. I felt myself drifting away and let it happen.

  Suddenly I saw flashing light. The light was the tunnel into the next world that I had heard people talk about. I looked hopefully for my father who, I was sure, would be there to meet me. But the light kept going on, off, on, off . . . Vaguely, I thought, ‘Someone is attracting my attention. What for? I’m drowning.’ Only I wasn’t and hadn’t – so far.

  I decided to live and fight. I started swimming with the very last energy I could pump up. I was not going to drown in a German river and kill my mother too. Hysteria was my friend and lent me the strength to kick for the flickering torchlight. When I reached the steep bank it was paved stone and I had no idea how to get out of the water.

  I heard shouting, English voices. ‘My coat! Grab my coat . . .’ Now I could see a coat being shaken in my direction but I couldn’t reach it. Then I clutched it but it sl
ipped away. I had to get out of the water. I had to reach the coat. It came down closer. Someone was lying on the ground now, shaking the coat at me. I mustered up my remaining energy and seized the fabric, which threatened to twist out of my grip. ‘Don’t let go or you’ll die’ beat like a mantra in my head.

  Hands reached down and took hold of my arms, dragged me out of the river like a waterlogged kitten and dropped me on to a concrete path. I didn’t feel a thing. There were three men in GI uniforms – two MPs and a young lieutenant – bending over me. They kept asking me questions but I was so full of Spree water that I couldn’t hear a thing. They gave up and stowed me in the back of the car. The lieutenant found a blanket and enveloped me in it, wrapping his arms around me to try to stop me shivering and to transfer a little much needed heat. I loved him instantly. I mumbled something naff and promptly passed out.

  I regained consciousness to the sound of an American voice, straight out of a movie, telling me, ‘It’s all over, everything’s okay. Just drink the whisky and everything will be perfect.’ I was too tired to reply, the tiredest I have ever been, and promptly fell asleep.

  The car stopped outside one of the typical big, ugly Berlin apartment houses. I was manhandled up the grim, badly lit stairs by two of the men. One of them rang a bell and at once the door opened to reveal a grinning over-made-up lady. The better looking of the two troopers explained the situation and I was escorted to a room with a big bed in it. Other brightly made-up ladies removed the rest of my costume and dumped me in a hot bath. After that I fell into bed, where I regretfully recalled that I hadn’t said thank you to the kind Americans.

  When I woke it was light. I sat up and looked around. The decoration was a bit gaudy and had seen better days, and in the bathroom I noted the many bottles of perfumes and bath salts, all with flashy American labels.

  Back in the bedroom, I sat on the bed and wondered what would become of me now. I reasoned that I was in West Berlin so I could go and see my mother. However, the only clothes I had were the sodden stage wardrobe, minus one boot and a skirt. Before I could work myself up into a sweat the door opened and a woman in her early forties came in. She was neat and small, and not overly friendly. I explained my dilemma, but she wanted only to know if there was anyone she should contact to let them know where I was. I thought she was pretty cool. There was I, a mysterious stranger, yanked out of the river at death’s door and brought to her in a squad car by a trio of Yanks and all she wished to find out was if there was someone she could telephone. I told her about Matka and how she could be contacted through a neighbour. She nodded and suggested that if I wanted something to eat I should go to the kitchen. I was ravenous so I drew a blanket around my shoulders and followed her.